One Maid's Mischief

Helen’s brow grew wrinkled, and her eyes were half-closed as she stood there with clasped hands, asking herself how she should act. She was checked at every double, and the hopelessness of her position had never appeared more strongly to her than it did now. Her eyes wandered to the door, to the window, and then to the Rajah, as he half reclined upon the mats, gazing at her with a smiling, satisfied look, as if watching the feeble efforts made by his captive to escape from his toils.

“Well,” he said, laughing, “has the fit of anger passed away? If not I can wait.”

She did not answer, but stood gazing at him with a piteous look in her eyes – gazing so pleadingly that he sprang to his feet, a change coming over his countenance as he approached her.

Helen’s heart gave one great throb of joy, for she read now in his face the power she had over him still. He really loved her, and it was he who was the slave, not she, and she would yet be able to mould him to her will.

But not by anger and reproach: they would only weaken her position. She had found that he was one who might be moved by her woman’s grief and tears, and acting upon the impulse of the moment, she waited until he was close at hand, and then, before he could stay her, she sank upon her knees, to clasp his hands in hers, and gazing in his face, burst into a passionate flood of tears.

End of Volume Two

Volume Three – Chapter One.

Chumbley’s Idea

“Chumbley,” said Bertie Hilton, “your behaviour towards that woman was sickening – almost disgusting! How you could be even civil to her is more than I can understand!”

“Oh, I’m always civil to a woman,” drawled Chumbley. “See how affable I always was to Helen Perowne, who – ”

“Will you have the goodness to leave Miss Perowne’s name out of the conversation?” said Hilton, with asperity.

“Certainly, if you wish it, and substitute little Stuart’s name. See how civil I always was to her.”

“A merit certainly,” said Hilton, contemptuously. “Who could help being civil to so amiable and good a little body!”

“Here, hang it, Bertie, old man!” cried Chumbley, in mock alarm, “don’t monopolise all the nice women. It was Helen Perowne the other day. Now you seem dead on little Stuart!”

“Confound Helen Perowne!” muttered Hilton, bitterly.

“Just as you like; and confound the Inche Maida too – I shan’t! Sort of sympathetic pity for woman – weaker vessels, you know.”

“Weaker vessel?” laughed Hilton, scornfully; “what, our captor?”

“Well, she isn’t a bad sort of woman,” replied Chumbley.

“Not a bad sort of woman? Why, she’s a modern Jezebel – a Cleopatra – a Semiramis!”

“Think so?” said Chumbley, quietly.

“Think so? Of course! I’m getting terribly tired of this captivity! I must get away somehow. How many days have we been here?”

“Week,” said Chumbley, laconically.

“A week of weeks it seems to me,” said Hilton. “Horrible woman!”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Chumbley, “she seems to possess very great taste.”

“Taste? The savage!”

“Well, great taste in taking a fancy to you. I think you ought to be very proud.”

“Proud? I sicken with disgust! Pah! Don’t let’s talk about her, but try and make some plan to escape.”

“Well, yes, I suppose we must do that; but ’pon my word, old fellow, I don’t see how. I wish old Bolter were here.”

“I wish Mrs Bolter were here to tackle this dreadful woman!” laughed Hilton. “We men can’t manage her; but that clever, sharp little body would bring her to her senses. What do you want Bolter for?”

“Oh, he’d mix up a dose for the guards, and give it to them in their tea, or whatever they drink; then they’d go to sleep, and we could calmly walk back to the fort.”

“I wonder what Harley thinks of our absence?”

“Thinks we’re dead, probably, and reposing happily each of us in a crocodile sarcophagus. Well, Bertie, old man, what’s to be done? The Inche Maida has quite cut us it seems, and we’re all alone, I suppose. Come, what’s to be done to get us out of this plight? You’re quite right, old fellow; it is most absurd!”

“Absurd? It is disgraceful! I feel as if we were not men, but a couple of silly girls!”

“With beards,” said Chumbley.

“And now give me your advice.”

“Well, that’s soon done,” replied Chumbley. “I’ve quite made up my mind what advice I shall give.”

“Well, what?”

“Do you mean what shall we do?”

“Yes; of course.”

“Nothing.”

Hilton uttered an ejaculation that was far from pious, and began to fume and fret, till Chumbley rose in his slow, cumbrous fashion, placed a cigar in his friend’s hand, and bade him smoke it.

“Look here, old fellow,” he said, quietly, “if we are to escape, it can only be when a chance offers itself; and if you will bring your profound wisdom to bear upon the matter, you will see that all we can do is to wait for that chance.”

“And until that chance comes we must put up with this wretched woman’s insults!”

“Yes, if you like to call them so; and I’d do it, old fellow, without getting into a bad temper and calling names, seeing – ”

“Seeing what?”

“That she tries to make up for her rather unladylike conduct by being very civil; while her cooking is good, the dinners excellent, and the breakfasts, the wines well chosen, and the cigars – there, did you ever smoke a better than that?”

“Oh, pish! Everyone can’t take things as quietly as you do, Chumb.”

“Poor fellows, no,” said the latter, with a satisfied air. “It’s the only quality I possess of which I am really proud. You see it makes me perfectly well suited for this climate, for no troubles or worries ever put me in a perspiration. I wish, though, we had a chess-board and men.”

“Chess-board! men!” retorted Hilton, laughing, in a half-amused, half-vexed tone; “who in the world could ever think of playing chess! Really, Chumbley, I believe you are quite happy and contented.”

“Well, not so bad, dear boy – not so bad now the novelty and the unpleasantly of the affair have worn off. You see, a fellow has only so long to live. Well, isn’t it a pity to spoil any of that time by making yourself miserable if you can help it? Take my advice and behave as young Jacob Faithful suggested, ‘Take it coolly;’ and as the sailor in another story I once read said, ‘if you can’t take it coolly, soldier, take it as coolly as you can.’”